Sharp Relief
by lost quill
Summary: Two men, a river by dim streetlight. Two lives, one face. One tired, one distressed. Two distressed, one tired, one slipping slowly away. WARNING : character death, mention of terminal illness. Oneshot.


_**Note : I don't own Hetalia.**_

A long, tedious afternoon of work does nothing for Norway.

He knows many who take pleasure in their work - Germany is almost entertained by it, and England describes the feeling of finishing a pile as exhilarating. Even Denmark has confessed to enjoying his position after the years of battle, finding a feeling of security in the ability to resort to situations other than bloodshed.

But not Norway. He may not have enjoyed the times where everything revolved around one's ability to fight, but he takes absolutely no pleasure in the hours of paperwork he is required to complete. In all honesty, he feels more exhausted and drained by it than anything else. Numb, almost.

Walking home after a day of it, he often feels almost as if he could fall asleep there and then, today included. He drags himself out of his office, barely acknowledging the people who give him a friendly greeting, more likely out of the deep sense of respect forged between a nation and their people than genuine friendship.

He wishes, sometimes, that he could just be human. To live without being held down by the weight of a nation and its history on his shoulders - that would be perfect, he thinks. But, alas, he is cursed with the burden of immortality - and anyone who thinks immortality is anything but a burden has clearly never tried it. Norway has long forgotten his age; he has a vague idea, but no real figure. He's just so _tired_ after all the years - sleep simply cannot satisfy him anymore.

His route home passes by a fairly large park, and he decides to indulge himself in the simple pleasure of strolling through it. He prides himself of the beauty of his country, and even the crowded, bustling cities possess elegance and charm, this park no exception. The light has begun to fade, the main source of light now being the street lights that are dotted about the area.

Norway walks along the path of a river flowing through the park, lost in his own thoughts. He halts abruptly as he comes close to walking into another figure due to his own lack of attention, although the other isn't paying much attention to anything, either.

The figure is leaning against the railing separating them from the river, head bowed. From where he is standing, it seems to Norway that this person is just a few years younger than his physical age - he would put them at seventeen, perhaps eighteen years old. Something about their posture and air triggers some kind of emotion inside of him, making him feel strangely protective of them, in a manner surpassing the usual nation-citizen set of emotions.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Are you okay?" He isn't sure what is compelling him to act so informally with this stranger, although it feels right, in a curious sort of way.

The other starts a little at his words, turning to face him. Both inhale sharply as they see each other, shock mirrored in two sets of eyes.

Indigo eyes stare back at him, framed by a choppy, light blonde fringe and creamy skin. A gold hair slide pulls the hair out of one eye, a stray curl brushing his neck. He's tall and slim, but well-built enough to avoid looking feminine.

It's like looking in a mirror.

There are some differences, though. For instance, this man's skin is unblemished and smooth-looking, whereas Norway's is littered with ancient scars and scratches. He's missing the light freckles on his nose and arms that Norway has acquired over the years.

His eyes are red-rimmed and wet with tears, whereas Norway's are not.

"W-what-" the other begins, stammering with shock.

"What's your name?" Norway asks him, deciding that remaining cool and composed would be the best way of dealing with the situation.

The young man pauses for a second before replying. "Johannessen. Lukas Johannessen," he says, clearly trying to stop his voice from shaking.

The name doesn't ring any bells to Norway, but he has a feeling that Lukas is being truthful.

"Why were you crying, Lukas?" He asks gently, hoping that he can be trusted.

Lukas doesn't say anything for a second, trying to regain some kind of composure. "My younger brother is ill," he replies, voice unsteady. "He's always been kind of sick, but it's worse than it's ever been. Apparently- apparently it's unlikely he'll make it to his seventeenth birthday." He coughs a little, shaking his fringe into his eyes to cover them. "He's sixteen now," Lukas adds shakily.

His words stir something inside of Norway. He thinks of Iceland, and all the times he's suffered from various tectonic-related natural disasters, and all the times he's waved off Norway's concern as he coughs ash into his sleeve. He tries to imagine Iceland's eyes without the fierce spark in them that shows he's determined to carry on without anyone's help, despite the fact that he should really just take a break as the effects of a volcano eruption hit his country.

He decides for now to ignore the eerie similarity in appearance between him and this young man, and tries to offer his comfort. "I have a younger brother, too," he begins. "He gets ill quite often, as well. He won't let me help him when it happens, and it's awful, watching him suffer when I could easily help him. He won't accept help from anyone. He's extremely stubborn, proud of his own independence."

Lukas nods. "Emil's like that, too. Or, at least, he used to be like that. It all kind of went out of him last year, when he fell ill again... I guess I should've known something was wrong - I mean, more wrong than usual - then. I think he guessed, and that's why he just stopped being-" he stops, swallowing. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm not usually like this, I don't usually just blurt out all my problems to a complete stranger. I just can't believe... I-" Lukas breaks off again, looking down and rubbing at his eyes.

Norway puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I suppose you're close. I understand, I think..."

"Close?" Lukas echoes, glancing up. "I-I raised him. I just- _he's only sixteen_..."

Norway isn't usually one for physical contact and the like - anyone and anything could tell you that. But even he believes that there is a time and a place for it, and right now would be that moment. Gently, he holds his arms out to Lukas, offering him a rare hug. The young man hesitates for second, before allowing Norway to wrap his arms around him, stroking his hair in an almost fatherly way.

"I feel like I know you," Lukas says into his shoulder, voice muffled by Norway's shirt and his tears. "I don't even know your name, yet I feel like I've known you all my life. You look like me-or perhaps I look like you..."

"Call me Nor," Norway tells him. "In a way, you do know me, I suppose. Although our similarity in appearance confuses me, too."

Lukas begins to pull away from their embrace, rubbing his eyes again. "I should go home," he says. "I have to go back to uni tomorrow."

"Ah, yes? What are you studying?" Norway asks him, a thought-more of a question, really, a question of the exact extent to which the two are similar-springing to mind.

"Geology," Lukas replies, avoiding eye contact.

This seems strange to Norway, for some reason. Lukas doesn't really seem the type to be interested in geology - the similarities between the two of them don't seem to end with appearance, and Norway certainly can think of many subjects he would rather study. He voices his thoughts, and Lukas bites his lip nervously.

"It's what Emil wanted to study," he says, and Norway feels as if something has hit him, crashed into him and taken the breath out of him.

"Lukas..." He breathes, feeling all kinds of emotions he hasn't felt for years flooding through him. "Lukas, that's- you shouldn't give up your own aspirations to live your brother's. Surely you have your own dreams?"

"Not really," Lukas replies, tone devoid of emotion. "Not anymore."

"There has to be something."

Lukas sighs, turning to face the river again. "I always liked writing. At first in Norwegian, but then I started in English and became quite good at it, I suppose. But most of what I wrote was for Emil. There's not really any point in writing for anyone or anything else. It's not like I could make a living out of it, anyway."

"Your entire life revolves around your brother, huh?" Norway says softly and closes his eyes for a second, trying to block the thoughts of just how similar he and Lukas are. "What about for yourself? Why can't you write for yourself, and no one else?"

"I've...never tried," Lukas admits. "I've spent most of my life trying to balance raising Emil and school. Our parents spend most of their time away, working. Almost anything I've done in my life was for him or for school, I suppose. I'm studying geology because he always wanted to."

"Does he know that's why you're doing it? Are you sure that's really what he wants?"

"No," he says quietly. "No, he doesn't know that's why I'm doing it. But every time I talk to him about what I've been doing, it's worth it."

"God, Lukas. You're possibly the most dedicated brother I've met, and that's a great feat," Norway tells him. "Give yourself a break."

Lukas looks away again, rubbing at his eyes once more. "I can't," he says in a pained whisper. "I can't. I'm aware of how pathetic I must seem to you. I'm sorry."

Norway thinks of how, before he met this young man so similar to him in so many ways and yet leading a life so dramatically _different_, he was complaining about the burdens of eternal life and great age. "You're not being pathetic," he says. "Not at all."

He knows he shouldn't pry, but a painful kind of curiosity is consuming him, and he has to give in to it. "What- what does Emil look like? Does he look like you?"

Lukas' gaze snaps back to him at his words, something akin to - but not quite - comprehension on his face. "N-no, he resembles our mother more than I do- I have photos-" he breaks off to pull a smartphone from the pocket of his jeans, turning it on. He hands it to Norway, who takes it with a word of thanks.

Filling the lock screen is a picture of a younger Lukas and another person that Norway would recognise anywhere. The skin is a little paler, but there's no mistaking the silvery-white hair, violet-blue eyes and delicate features.

Staring back at him is a photo of a person visually identical to Norway's own younger brother, Iceland.

Hands shaking, he hands the phone back to Lukas. "I can see the resemblance between you and he," he says blankly.

Norway's earlier desire to be human has been completely dissipated.

The conversation slows from there, with Norway doing his best to console Lukas while trying not to show his internal panic as he realises that somewhere, surely not far from where the two of them are in the city, lies a dying teenager who could almost be a clone of his younger brother.

Lukas leaves after a while, saying something about work and studying. They've both sensed the conversation has ended - in a way, they can read each other like a book because, in a way, it's like reading themselves. Except not, because Lukas is eighteen, nineteen, a mere university student whose only aim in life is to make his younger brother happy, whereas Norway is thousands of years old, a tired ex-warrior covered in physical scars gained in battle and emotional scars that he has long learnt to ignore.

Norway walks home himself not long after. He locates his personal phone - the one he uses for purposes other than work - and calls the number at the second-top of the most frequently dialled numbers.

"_Hello?_" A tired voice answers, and Norway lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "_Nor, is that you? You woke me up, I hope you know. It's one in the morning, Nor- wait, doesn't that make three over there? What the hell are you awake for?_"

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Ice," Norway says, his conversation with Lukas echoing in his mind.

"_Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be okay? Go to sleep, Norway._"

"Okay. Sorry. Goodnight, brother."

"_Night, Nor._" Iceland ends the call, leaving Norway staring at the screen of his phone, at the contact picture next to Iceland's name.

Silvery-white hair. Violet-blue eyes. Delicate, doll-like features.

Norway has never been so thankful for his status of immortality.

A few years later - although it seems like much less to Norway - he looks up Lukas' name out of dull curiosity.

_Lukas Johannessen, novelist_, his computer tells him. _Genre: tragedy, family._

The rest of the page is irrelevant to Norway, excepting a quote at the bottom of the site: _"I write for my late brother, my parents, my friends. But above all, I write for myself, and simply because I want to." _

_**Author's note : The most-called number on Norway's phone is Denmark, to whom he can let out his built-up annoyance and exasperation for the rest of the world.**_

_**I, um... I'm sorry?**_


End file.
